  Thou that hast travelled far away, In lands beyond the sea, Wilt understand me, when I say What there has come to me. In chambers dim thou wilt have wrought, With no one by, to cheer, And trod the downward paths of thought, In solitude and fear; Nor till the weary day was o’er, Into the air have fled From thought which could delight no more, From books whose power was dead; What time perchance the drooping day With burning vapour fills The deep recesses far away Of all the golden hills: Or later, when the twilight blends All hues, or when the moon Into the ocean depths descends, A wavering column, down. Then hast not thou in spirit leapt, Emerging from thy gloom, Like one who unawares o’erstept The barriers of a tomb. And in thine exultation cried— Of gladness having fill, And in it being glorified— “The world is beauteous still!” |
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